Lilies of the Valley

spring’s green shields

brought forth

against

winter’s last breath

a budding princess

or two

- worth fighting for

This is for Geraldine’s Woven Dreams Prompts.

Micro Weird: (Excellent) Tiny Tales of the Strange, by Charles Allen Gramlich

I posted this review on Amazon, but I thought that it wouldn’t hurt posting it here too with the hope it might reach a few more people. I really loved this book! I had acquired it earlier, when I only had Kindle for PC, but it was the first book I read now on my not-even-a-week-old Kindle Paperwhite. Too bad Kindle doesn’t show the colours. I love the cover art, by the very talented Lana Gramlich. In colour or in black and white, this photo gives me an eerie feeling that’s perfect for the stories.

Here goes:

In this aptly titled collection, Charles Gramlich has gathered fifteen very short stories. In them, there are ghosts, aliens, planets, spaceships, or just human beings whose bizarre behaviour or circumstances warrant them a place in this anthology of the weird.

Out of the fifteen stories, some are lyrical, some are humorous, some are tinged with sadness, most are disturbing, one was downright scary, and all of them have a delightful twist in the end. As a bonus, in the end we get a bit of history about the author’s early literary influences and a bit of history about each piece – this is a part I enjoyed just as much as reading the stories themselves

Flash fiction is not easy to write, but Mr. Gramlich is a master storyteller and I very highly recommend this collection.

Visit Charles at Razored Zen.

An Anniversary

A bit more than six years ago, I was reading an article about some famous blogs that had turned into book deals and thought Hmmm...

One of them was Girl with a One-Track Mind, the other one Wife in the North. There were others too. I didn’t think I could find something constantly interesting to write about, in my life or in the place where I live, nor have the stamina to do it daily, but the idea of writing a bit of my soul and let it float away on a tiny paper (or rather, electronic) boat on the river of the World Wide Web, felt kind of exciting. Scary, but exciting.

So, exactly six years ago today, I took the plunge. (Or maybe the first shaky step.)

A link from Wife in the North had taken me to the Inner Minx, the blog of Minx, aka Kate Bousfield, author of “Coven of One.” Minx was just blogging about some lions (not just any lions, but lions of Lyon) up for adoption at Seamus Kearney’s site. Go take a look, they’re still there and they are beautiful!

(Seamus is an Irishman from New Zealand living and working as a journalist in France. Also a short-story writer, novelist, musician, blogger…)

One could “adopt” a lion, name him, write a short poem or text about him, and become a member of the group of writers called The Shameless Lions WritingCircle, initiated by Seamus. Got it? Seamus – Shameless :-)

At the time, Seamus believed –I’m sure that he still does- that powerful writing can be found in many places on the internet. The Circle and the award “A Roar for Powerful Words” were developed by him to put forth that belief and to encourage writers to roar. I completely agree with this.

I chose my lion, which you can see on the right side bar of my blog (yes, go lower, much lower), wrote my poem, actually I wrote two because the first one was too long (also on the side bar, below Alexander’s photo) and Seamus very gracefully accepted me into the Shameless Lions Circle.

This is how I met a bunch of great people. Some have since retired from blogging, some have become successfully published authors, a few are still going on.

I guess I’m one of those still going on…

The Shameless Lions Writing Circle was the first leap for me. The second was The Clarity of Night. In fact, it was Minx again who suggested to me I should check it out. I’m so glad I did.

Jason Evans’s blog, the beauty of his writings, and the high quality contests that he held on his blog have all meant tremendously to me. The blogosphere is certainly poorer without them. I surely miss them. But although Jason’s isn’t an active blog anymore, the goodies are still all there, just a few clicks away.

It is, in a way, mind-boggling to see how paths open one from another, taking you to wonderful places where you can meet wonderful, incredibly talented, like-minded people, and how unbelievably enriching this experience, this communion can be. Not to mention the exceptional quality of the poetry, prose, photography, etc. –art in one word- that these people are posting on their blogs.

This is why I’m still here…

Trust

This is for Geraldine's Woven Dreams... :-)

The Whisper From the Deep in Issue #23 of The Lovecraft eZine

The April issue of the Lovecraft eZine, published and edited by Mike Davis, is now available to buy for Kindle or Nook, and on-line for free.

My story The Whisper From the Deep is right there, graced by the striking illustration by Steve Santiago.

Do go and read it, if you have a chance, as well as all the other stories. The Lovecraft eZine is a fantastic magazine and I'm proud to be part of it!

And don't you just love the cover?

Where Are the Sunny Days?

I am in dire need

of the magic switch

that turns rain

into sunshine

and, no,

do not tell me

that rain brings flowers

there’s no point in

mentioning rainbows

you know what I’m talking about

you surely remember

the days

of brilliant sunlight

when everything seemed endless

when we were masters of the Universe

lovely, lovely photo from http://carolynbremer.com/wordpress/?p=47

This is linked to Geraldine’s Woven Dreams Prompts.

A Walk on the High Line

After accessing the park from the elevator at 16^th Street, behind Chelsea Market, we looked south to get a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty (here with quite a bit of zooming) before heading north. (Note: Start at Gansevoort Street, to see everything...)

Amazing how peaceful it feels to walk the only path of this long park, so close, yet so miraculously isolated from the mad bustle of the city.

 Spring was late by one month in New York, but any bit of greenery and any tiny flower  look amazing after enduring this year’s winter.

Along the way, you might encounter…

an intriguing window…

some sweet denizens of the park…

interesting buildings…

street art…

the art of nature…

and some more art…

The end at 30^th Street... but an extension of the park is under construction.

Alive

Today I’m happy

to just be

a bee perhaps

a fly

a ladybug

rocked gently

by the

placid breeze

the youthful leaf

is all I see

a patch of blue

could be

the sky

from where

sweet warmth

descends

on me

today I’m happy

to just be

alive

image from A Bug Blog

This is for this week’s prompt at Geraldine’s Woven Dreams.

New York New York

photo by ajagendorf25

Ah, the Big Apple, the City that Never Sleeps, the Melting Pot, the Empire City... I can hear it calling to me again... So next week I’ll be walking its streets, still in awe, still in love with it all... looking forward to getting infused with some of its enthusiasm... I’ll see you in a week. Happy Easter to all who celebrate it! Be good!

Music of the Night

 photo by gimrie

It was in Venice where I first noticed him, in the noisy crowd gathered around a fire juggler. A tall, slim man, in an unusual Plague Doctor mask, red adorned with gold, golden hair cropped short, no brim hat, no long overcoat. Just red nobleman clothes from another time. Renaissance, perhaps. Sheets of fire danced over the dark, stale water of the canaletto, cries and foolish laughter mixing with Vivaldi’s violins. He stood among the crowd, and yet apart. The gold on his clothes seemed real. The fire and his red cape reflected in his eyes. He watched me, as if he could see more than my eyes behind my brilliant larva mask, underneath my elaborate dress. As if he knew why I sought the night mostly. As if he could see all of my secrets.

He left with a woman. A Columbina dressed in green. A random woman, I thought, as I followed them with my eyes, with a pang in my heart, until they disappeared into a darkened alley. She wasn’t his match, I was.

I looked for him at the airport in Rome, when I was boarding the plane to Rio. Why would he have been there? But I could still feel him. Watching me.

Stupid, stupid, I thought, asking for another glass of champagne, listening to Alessandro Marcello’s oboes on my earphones. When I fell asleep, he was in my dream.

In Rio, I prepared for him. I painted my skin carefully in gold and green, to match my eyes, my waist-long hair, my scanty suit, the lavish feathers.

Down in the streets, in the colored night, I looked for him again, and for the first time I barely took notice of the wild rhythms of the banda. I danced, only because the visceral beat allowed for nothing else. The floats, the glistening bodies, the cries, the lights, all swirled around me, dizzying. So many faces, all different, all the same. The surdo was beating right in my ribcage, and it annoyed me.

When I saw him on the other side of the street, I knew he too had been looking for me. It couldn’t have been a mere coincidence. It was he, I knew it. Taller than the crowd, and still standing apart. This time, torso bare, lean muscles moving under smooth skin painted silver, white linen pants tied with a rope around narrow hips, gold hair, cropped short, a small, bizarre silver mask that made me think of a cruel jungle god. His beautiful mouth held the hint of a smile. His eyes glinted in the light of torches. Blue. Or green.

A group of dancers pushed in between us, with frantic moves, carrying me with them. He was gone by the time I escaped their wave.

Where was he? How much of a coincidence was our encounter? Was he a Carnival chaser as I was? Was he chasing me? 

I didn’t notice those men until they were too close. Until their heat, their smell of caipirinha overwhelmed me. Three of them, no, five. They had bottles in their hands. They had tambourines and bells to keep the rhythm of the batucada; those would have covered my cries even if my mouth hadn’t been too dry. The alley became darker, narrowed by garbage cans. The street with the lights and the dancing seemed suddenly, impossibly, far away. I had left my knife in the hotel room.

That’s when I screamed. That’s when something else happened. A blur. A wind.

It was he. I stared at him. We were standing and those men were lying on the ground around us. There might have been some blood. I swayed, my knees almost giving way.

He steadied me, one cool hand digging into my left arm. His silver mask resembled the Inca Sun god. Maybe he was a god, after all.

For a moment, he looked at me as if he wanted to say something. But then he was simply gone, swift as lightning.

I didn’t wash my arm that night in my hotel room. I lied on my side, with the imprint of his hand in the bronze paint on my skin, and longed for him.

I was in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Always finished the season in New Orleans.

Where was he? I didn’t see him, didn’t feel him the whole day. The whole night. Maybe he was still in Rio.

Time to go home. Wait for next year’s carnivals.

Away from Bourbon Street, people were scarcer; with the distance, a plaintive tune of jazz was dying slowly, as if that could ever happen in New Orleans. It was the sax… the sax always broke my heart.

I didn’t hear his steps, I just saw him. We stopped, maybe at an arm length from each other.

No masks this time. I knew it was him. Clad in black, blond hair, face beautiful and savage alike. A prince of the North. He stood one full head taller than I, and I was tall and wearing the highest heels. His eyes –I still couldn’t tell if they were blue or green- held the most unsettling mix of laughter, and promises, and death.

“You were right in Venice,” he said. “You are my match. I have been waiting for you. We are both of the night…”

He didn’t try to hide his teeth when he smiled. His fangs.

But he wasn’t taking. He was asking.

I stepped into his arms.

“Tonight we’ll listen to the music of your blood,” he whispered on my neck, his breathing cool, soothing. “And then we’ll have all the nights…”

This is for Geraldine's Woven Dreams prompt: music.

Attic

When she played in the garden with her little sister, Gemma had to glimpse at the attic windows every two minutes. There were four high narrow windows in the eastern wing of the manor, exactly above Gemma’s bedroom. And there was somebody in there.

No matter how fast she was, she caught the movement only with the corner of her eye. Every time she looked directly, there was nothing, only the reflection of the clouds in the sky or a glint of sunshine. Her sister didn’t see anything, but then Rosie was only five. But Gemma knew there was someone… some-thing in there. Watching her.

In the evening, when she tried to fall asleep, she could hear someone walking above her head, sometimes light, sometimes heavy, sometimes just a thump-thump accompanied by a squeaking that seemed successively near and far.

Sometimes Gemma would call Mum.

“I can’t hear a thing,” Mum would say after a minute of deep silence. “Maybe it’s the rats.” And when she tucked Gemma in, Mum would add, “Stop reading scary stories before you go to bed.”

Of course, Mum would say that. But that was because Mum didn’t know. Mum never heard the footsteps. It was as if whoever was in the attic knew when Mum was there and stopped. The moment she was gone, the pacing resumed furiously, as if in anger, the creaking of the floorboards so heavy sometimes that Gemma was afraid the ceiling would crack. On those nights, not even two pillows over her head helped her fall asleep.

“There’s nothing in that attic,” Mum said one day, holding Gemma’s chin in her hand, her eyes worriedly examining her face. “Maybe some old dolls of your Grandmama’s,” she said smiling, “or some ball dresses of your Grandaunt’s Rebecca…” Gemma knew that Aunt Rebecca, her grandmother’s older sister had disappeared when she was eighteen, but nobody found out if she had eloped with one of the handsome officers or had drowned in the march. Gemma was staying in her old bedroom, the most beautiful room in the house. “Come, darling, we’ll take a look together.”

Gemma clutched Mum’s hand all the way up the dark, narrow, winding flight of stairs at the end of the corridor. The air was stale yet the flame from the lamp Mum was holding flickered wildly. Gemma tried not to look at the shadows on the walls. She tried to think only of the sunny, bright afternoon outside, and of all the new blooms in the garden. Her heart jumped when she heard Mum exclaim,

“What is this? I don’t understand…”

The door to the attic was boarded with thick wood planks. And for good measure, a few more had been nailed to the first layer. Mum touched the planks as if still expecting to have a door there that she could open.

Gemma sat on the floor and put her right cheek and ear to the wood, her palms spread on the dusty smooth surface. The wood smelled of an herb, a sweet, nauseating smell, or maybe that was just how old wood smelled.

Then she heard it.

The raspy breathing. Waiting. Right behind the boarded door. Gemma knew Mum had heard it too from Mum’s sharp gasp right before she dropped the lamp. Oil spilled from it before Mum could pick it up and it caught fire, but Mum stepped on it quickly, almost setting fire to her skirts.

“Oh, God,” Mum said, taking a step back. “We could burn up here.” She grabbed Gemma’s shoulders, pulling her up. A black stain on the wood planks still fumed where the fire had lived shortly.

Behind the boarded door, something started squeaking.

“Is there someone in there?” Mum said, her voice clear and just a little shaky. The squeaking stopped.

Mum raised her hand and knocked on the wood planks.

An inhuman shriek rose in response and a blast shook the door so hard a few nails snapped loose. Cold, musty air brushed their faces out of nowhere.

Gemma and Mum threw themselves down the stairs, hand in hand, legs catching in their skirts, in peril of breaking their necks. They only stopped downstairs, in the hall, with the white marble shining in the afternoon sun.

“You will sleep with me tonight,” Mum said, holding Gemma tight, kissing the top of her head, again and again. “Tomorrow Peter will get some boys from the stables and they will open that door.”

But Gemma didn’t think that would be a good idea. She had an idea of her own.

#

Nobody knew what started the fire on the upmost floor of the eastern wing, in Gemma’s bedroom, but they all stood and watched safely from the garden, in the early hours of the morning. Luckily, Gemma and Rosie had been with Mum at the time. Or Gemma most of the time. The valets and the maids stood ready to intervene at Mum’s orders, but there was little chance the fire would spread below to the stone structure. The attic though, which, together with the bedroom below, was a late wooden addition to the old manor, was already ablaze.

Gemma watched the dark shadow at the windows, for once not eluding her, illuminated by the flames, and then she watched the windows explode under the overwhelming heat. Flames and smoke burst out, but from within them, Gemma saw a darker smoke emerge, a narrow, twisting, pitch black bundle of smoke, that rose spinning quickly as if with purpose then disappeared into the pink sunrise sky.  

This week at Woven Dreams, Geraldine wants us to think about attics…